


coeval

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars (Marvel Comics), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, Extra Treat, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Opposites Attract, POV Second Person, Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Terex Has Strange Ideas About Romantic Gestures, Time Skips, Unconventional Format, interconnected vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: There are few things more fun than fighting, but pissing off the brass might just be one of them. Finding a truly worthy nemesis is another. Getting to do both at the same time is a gift you won’t squander once you recognize what it is you have in your hands.If you’re going to go out, it’ll be on your own terms and in your own time for a truly worthy cause:Your own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weakinteraction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakinteraction/gifts).



Phasma’s image flickers to life in miniature before you, her armor glinting spasmodically through the interference. You’ve considered telling her how annoying it is to be nearly blinded every time she tries to order you about the galaxy, but you figure you’d prefer your head to stay attached to your body and anyway, the First Order pays you well enough to forgo the finer things in life—like perfect vision and not having to listen to a dour woman probably fifteen, twenty years your junior tell you how to do your job. No, you know exactly how old she is. You just don’t like to dwell on it.

 _You’re nothing but the Empire’s runoffs,_ you think. _ISB would never have left someone like me in charge of anything. But they weren’t just children playing at conquest._

You carefully avoid sneering at her until you realize you don’t care if she sees you doing it. And then you sneer full force, lip curling in a way you hope gets under Phasma’s skin and stays there. It’s your favorite sneer, the one you pair with a congenial laugh and pretty words when you are feeling particularly scrappy. She doesn’t scare you the way she scares some people, though she might not realize that since you usually do what she says. But that’s only because so far it’s been more worth your time to dance on her puppet’s strings than to buck her. The First Order is arrogant though and for no good reason that you can see. You’d place good credits on her not suspecting a thing.

You don’t realize that today’s a good day, not until much, much later.

And you don’t realize why until far later than that.

“Find Poe Dameron,” she tells you.

Well. _That’s_ certainly something you can do.

She also tells you not to fail, which, in _your_ opinion, remains true even after Phasma marks you a traitor and starts splitting her resources just to find you and drag you back for what you presume will be a pompous display of bloodthirsty authority. Boring and tedious, meant more to ensure the rabble don’t get their own ideas than to punish you specifically.

No, your dead body will not become a point around which the troops rally, thank you very much.

There are few things more fun than fighting, but pissing off the brass might just be one of them. Finding a truly worthy nemesis is another. Getting to do both at the same time is a gift you won’t squander once you recognize what it is you have in your hands.

If you’re going to go out, it’ll be on your own terms and in your own time for a truly worthy cause:

Your own.

*

It’s somewhere between your third run in and your fourth that you figure it out, long after Grakkus, but before, well… to put it frankly, that time you’ll try to impress your wayward pilot with prime First Order intel and snide, snappish encouragement. He’ll take it, your pilot will, to General Organa because he’s a good soldier and a good man. And he would never keep from his superiors something that may prove useful even if the shadows in his eyes, the way he bites his lip, all project distrust and disbelief, like he doesn’t trust you, but he has wants. A want for it to be true, sadly. Not want for what you’ll want him to want from you. It won’t be your finest moment.

Especially since they’ll fail to obliterate the installation you’ll hand to them on a silver platter. In fact, they won’t do anything at all with that information. You never do find out why either. You might want to rethink giving it to him now—while you still have a choice in the matter.

You won’t ever find out if the encouragement does anything for him.

Your future self might encourage you—the you you are now—to force Poe’s hand if he could. Bring him along to destroy it, make sure the job is done, like a holovid trope come to life—not that you’ll ever admit to watching _those_. He might enjoy that. He seems the type to appreciate the odd explosion or two. Starkiller will confirm this fact for you, by the way, and it will please you immensely to find out he will have been the one to take the killing shot on the thing. You’ve always thought it in poor taste, replicating the Empire’s mistakes like that. Destroying it will be for the best. Even if you let yourself be _slightly_ impressed that the First Order will have destroyed an entire system of planets with it first. Just slightly. That folk story about broken chronometers and all that. It’s not a surprise to you that they might get something right once.

But back to the point: there’s a thin line between wanting to kill someone and wanting to fuck them—to put it in the crassest terms you’re willing to imagine. And the line is thinner for you, you suspect, than it is for most people. And Poe Dameron may well have found himself on the wrong side of that line. Or the right. From a certain point of view anyway.

This isn’t a new experience for you exactly, but it is enough of a novelty that you’re not entirely sure how to proceed. That, at least, is entirely new.

You’ve always known what to do before.

*

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Poe says to you, scoffing. His curls fall across his forehead as he shakes his head, a shadow dragged along behind them across the bridge of his nose. “If this is a trap—”

“Not a trap, Commander,” you say, pleased with your reception. Nothing makes you feel quite so warm inside as the disdain of others. Sometimes you think you run on spite. Taking the seat across from him, you lean back and cross your legs, pondering. It says much for his character that he hasn’t drawn his blaster on you.

It probably says just as much to him that you have refrained as well.

You suspect he hasn’t reached as charitable conclusion about it as you have, but there’s time yet.

“Pal, I’m not here for you,” he says, scraping at about a day’s growth across his jaw. It suits him. You consider saying as much—to throw him off-balance if nothing else—but instead you hold your tongue. You may be an impatient man, but you know the value of waiting, too. And anyway, your flattery would be wasted on him. He’s much too smart to accept it at face value. His eyes rove across the bar, as though to make his point.

“On the contrary,” you say, uncrossing your legs, a grin catching at the corner of your mouth. Palms smoothing down your chest to settle at your stomach, you let yourself slide forward onto the edge of your chair. Your fingers knit together as your elbows thunk against the metallic table. “I am very much who you’re here for.”

The play of emotions across his face is a delight to behold. Blankness confusion suspicion anger resignation. Each flickers and dies in his eyes until all he is left with is vaguely annoyed disapproval. Lips thinning, he thumbs at his cheekbone and looks away. There is a gesture from Salevian Three that looks very like the one Poe has just made.

It isn’t a particularly _refined_ gesture.

And it may very well be a coincidence that he has used it.

But you hope it’s not.

From the rebellious upward slant of his chin when he looks your way again, the placid smugness conveyed in the twitch of his lips, you suspect it had been purposeful. How he knows you’d know what it means is beyond you—perhaps it’s just providence that both he and you should know it—but that doesn’t stop desire from flaring to life in your belly, your muscles tightening with expectation. Excitement. You’ve had so little of it lately. And here is a huge dose of it wrapped up in one of the more pleasing packages you’ve come across well within reach.

Outrunning the First Order just isn’t the same when you know their whole playbook back-to-front and Phasma’s the only one who cares enough to conduct a search. She’s so _unimaginative_. Not like Poe.

Poe’d probably give you the biggest run for your credits that you could ever hope to ask for.

“I do so enjoy our chats,” you say, palm slapping the table, light to avoid drawing attention from your fellow patrons. “Though you are usually more loquacious than this.”

Dry, he answers, “My heart bleeds for you,” the words falling slowly from his mouth.

You nod, sage, because you think it might get a rise out of him. “The shine has gone from this relationship.” Your tongue clicks, mournful. _Tsk tsk tsk_. “But perhaps I can get it back.” After a pause, you reach into the pocket of your very much not First Order regulation jacket and pull out an equally non-regulation data chit.

This, your future self would tell you, is where you make your mistake. But hindsight only exists once an event becomes the past. You can’t know how much of a waste this will be yet. And with the end balanced on your thumb, you flick it across the table at him, fully expecting him to catch it.

He doesn’t dissatisfy.

“I believe you’ll find that of some interest.” That done, you get to your feet. Better to leave them with questions than to leave them bored. “Don’t be disappointing.” Turning with military precision, you stride toward the door, the bartender passing you on your way out, nodding at you in recognition. She carries a glass of brandy, just like you’d ordered in just the particular glass you’d ordered it in. For Poe, not for yourself, though you do find the idea of sharing a drink with him appealing.

You do hope you’re correct in having thought he might enjoy what you’ve ordered for him.

In that, at least, you’ve never been wrong before.

*

You—and your future self, though your future self is now your past self and has long since given up regretting past-past you’s mistakes—are surprised, pleasantly so, by the hard muzzle of a blaster nudging at your lower back, a hand wrapped tight around your elbow, bone grinding against bone under the pressure, a cheek pressed nearly to your own.

You know who it is before he speaks even though it is broad daylight on a world he shouldn’t even know exists nor know that you’re on.

“I should turn you in,” Poe says, the hint of a smile in his voice, a fact you cannot verify without turning your head, which you do, bringing your mouth within inches of his. “Phasma’s put a bounty out on you.”

You were right about the smile.

“How charming that you think I don’t already know that. But it is wonderful of you to offer a warning all the same,” you say, testing the grip he’s got on you. It’s a strong one, but flexible. He lets you tug away slightly. Just for a moment. Before he pulls you back and pushes you forward. Your gait is steady though you hadn’t expected the nudge and no one seems to notice anything amiss as you’re hustled down the street toward your apartment. The people of neutral worlds tend to mind their own business, you’ve found, and all for the good because you would be quite unhappy were anyone to interfere. “My, you do seem to have upgraded your intelligence apparatus, haven’t you?”

“Mmm,” Poe agrees. Then: “I could buy a new X-wing for how much Phasma wants you back.”

“Is that all?”

“Shoulda worked harder if you wanted it to be higher.”

“As I recall,” you say, prickly with annoyance and arousal both, “I did exactly that. It’s not my fault—” You lean against him, just a little, just to feel him shove at you in turn. The scent of his cologne clings to the air around you as a result, bright and clean, a little sweet. Same as always. Poe’s as loyal to his grooming routine as he is to everything else. “—that your people didn’t hold up your end of the bargain.”

“I don’t recall striking an agreement with you,” Poe says, tight, answer enough.

So you had been right after all.

“We can rectify that oversight now if you’d like.”

“I’m not authorized.”

 _That’s not a no,_ you think. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re alone.” Poe yanks on his arm, pulls him to a stop in front of your apartment building. You crane your neck to look up at it, almost surprised to see it there. Usually it takes much longer. How time flies. “We could do a lot of damage, you and I.” He pushes you toward the door, blaster digging into your spine. You wait until you’re both inside the elevator to continue. Serious, deadly, you say, “Have you decided yet to tell me the truth?”

“Pal, there’s a whole lotta truth out there that’d break your heart,” he says, stowing his blaster. “You don’t want to know the truth.”

“Or perhaps you’ll be the heartbroken party here,” you say, playing a hunch. One thing you know about Poe: he wouldn’t disregard an order from on high. Chances are, he’s here because General Organa had never explicitly told him not to come. If that turns out to be true, you wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if General Organa hadn’t told him no for just that reason. “Does your dear general throw you at every dangerous mission that crosses her desk or just the ones that’ll probably get her best pilot killed?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The number above the bank of buttons clicks higher and higher, your floor out of reach for another thirty seconds or so. “So I’m meant to believe you went rogue for this? Pardon me if I find that difficult to believe.”

“No,” he says, eyes finding yours once you turn to look at him. Were you a more poetic man, you’d say that daring has burnished their particular shade of brown into something more than the sum of their parts. “ _I_ throw _myself_ at every dangerous mission that crosses the general’s desk. That’s what you’re meant to believe.”

Something in the cavalier way he speaks stokes a fire within your chest, anger and admiration licking at your ribcage and around your heart. Poe Dameron should be leading armies. He should be laying waste to all who oppose him. If he wasn’t so naïve, you’d call him an inspiration. As it is, he has potential—so much of it. A part of you whispers that you could be the one to shape it. The rest of you knows it should be he himself doing that. Not you. Not Leia Organa.

He should, you also think, not be throwing himself into any danger you haven’t instigated yourself.

The elevator dings, door sliding open with a whoosh, depositing the pair of you onto a bland, abandoned floor, no doubt exactly the same as any of the other one-hundred or so floors in the place. It’s offensive in its anonymity and pathetic on top of it. This is what you’ve been reduced to. That Poe gets to see it, too, well. You’re sure it could be worse—you could still be on Megalox and desperate to kill Poe after all—but this, this is bad enough.

Even worse, Poe hardly seems to notice, his elbow nudging you in the side. You’ve been reduced to _this_ and he doesn’t so much as comment. “Move.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, a twinge too brightly, too eager. You have no idea if he notices or not as he doesn’t react one way or the other to it. You’re not sure you’re grateful for that at least.

When Poe outlines the plan to you, safe behind the thick door of your apartment, you almost kiss him.

The urge is far less figurative than you’d like.

*

“Did you ever think you’d see the day—?” you ask, the viewport filled with the red-orange blooms of a truly spectacular explosion. The freighter you’ve… _commandeered_ … is far enough from the source to avoid even the mildest turbulence, but you’d swear you feel its heat all the same.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Generally?” you say. “No.”

Poe scoffs and shakes his head, apparently very unhappy that he’s succeeded in completing his mission. “You’re not even the slightest bit affected by what you’ve just done?”

“Ah,” you say, “no.” You answer in the negative because you know Poe wouldn’t want to hear the truth: you _are_ affected by what you’ve done. Just not in the way he hopes you are.

“You disgust me.” Plainspoken, the words strike with rather more force than you expect.

Swinging your chair around, you grip the armrests, eyes no doubt flashing. You must have quite the look on your face because Poe’s staring at you a little wide-eyed himself. Leaning forward, you make damned sure you keep eye contact. “And it disgusts me how little you truly understand your enemies, Commander. This was a military target, well away from civilian sectors. I needn’t remind you they showed none of the same restraint when it came to Republic space.”

“You’re one of them and you’re not even—”

“I am _not_ one of _them_!” you say, sharp, each word louder than the last. You sigh, drawing back in your chair, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I wasn’t one of them even when I was, technically, one of them. And no, I’m not sorry.”

Frowning, Poe looks toward the console, his fingers dancing across his thighs. “Then why?”

“Because I like what I do and though they despised me, they mostly let me do what I wanted,” you say, willing to admit at least to this. “I daresay you take more pleasure from those dogfights you’re so fond of getting yourself into than you care to admit, too.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“No,” you say, unwilling to admit that you’re glad of that fact, “but you understand me, I think.”

“There isn’t a single understandable thing about you, Terex,” he says, huffing in faint, disbelieving amusement. Perhaps he has found it in himself to admire your audacity. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“And yet.” You pick at the grime beneath your fingernails, rotate your chair until you, too, are back at your console. “I haven’t the slightest doubt in my mind that _that_ fact hasn’t stopped you from figuring me out.”

“You’re so full of shit, man,” Poe says, grabbing hold of the controls. “Let’s just get the hell out of here and call it a day, all right? You can pretend we’re friends when we’re no longer in First Order space.”

Your lip quirks up at the utter sincerity in his voice. Taking hold of your own controls, you complete your own checks and listen as he goes through his own.

He’s quick, masterful, and before you know it, the stars stretch around you and you’re both on your way home.

Past-future you is proud of this moment of redemption.

*

You consider giving Poe another target.

You don’t.

Another hunch maybe.

*

The next time you see him, he comes to you. You’re not sure how he’s found your latest hideout so quickly, but it doesn’t hurt your feelings in the slightest. “Why don’t you just defect?” he asks, leaning in your doorframe until you finally gesture him inside, eyes rolling.

“Why would I want to? It delights me to no end that _you’ve_ taken to perusing _me_ ,” you reply. Hands sweeping to encompass the room, you look around. “Would you bother if I did? I have everything I could ever want now.”

Features pinched, Poe nods. “Yeah, I can see that.” There’s a crack in the white-painted duracrete wall, the only form of decoration on the thing. He jerks his head toward it as though to illustrate his inane point. “Home sweet home, right?”

“Spare me, Commander.” You cross your arms and don’t offer him a seat. He takes one anyway, dropping into your favorite chair, an oversized leather monstrosity that’s proved itself far more comfortable than its provenance would suggest. “Why are you here?”

“Got some work for you,” he replies, clipped, all business, his hands clasping behind his back. “If you want it.”

You want it, but you don’t want to tell him so. You want it probably more than he could ever understand. More than you understand, if you’re willing to be honest. Which you most decidedly are not.

Good thing he knows anyway, because he hands over a flimsy with the details, a—dare you say—eager smile on his face.

And when you succeed, you and Poe both, on a little act of sabotage against one of Phasma’s precious supply lines, the cleanest op left to the Resistance in this mess of a war, he offers a smile and a clap on the shoulder and a murmured, “Guess there’s hope for you yet.” And it’s not the display of gratitude you want, but you’ve had worse receptions—from Poe even, on occasion—and he sticks around long enough to drain a bottle of your finest brandy and you think maybe there’s something to doing the right thing once in a while.

Even if it is for less than noble reasons.

*

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Poe asks, practically crawling across your body to peer around the corner the pair of you have slid behind. Your heart races and you breathe in ragged, undignified gasps. Blaster fire pings against the wall across from you, puffs of dust and disintegrated duracrete falling on you and the floor and Poe in large and small flakes alike. He manages to get off a couple of shots while balanced across your thighs and then pushes himself back, barking a laugh as he bangs his head against the wall.

You bite back a groan as he settles at your side. A pained groan. Not the more pleasant variety you’d be perfectly happy _not_ to withhold from his ears if given the opportunity. Phasma must be doing something right with her people. You can’t see how they’d manage to hit you otherwise. There’s no such thing as luck in your experience, not when it comes to this. Damned stormtroopers. Damned Phasma. Damned First Order.

Damn Poe Dameron for dragging you into this. Damn you for falling for it.

“Your shoulder’s a mess,” he says.

“Kind of you to bring that up.” The words force themselves past your gritted teeth. You draw a breath to say more, but a knife forged of fire steals it away, cutting right into your lungs to release it to the ether. Panting, you turn your head, fighting the urge to slump further down the wall. “Any other news you’d care to share?”

He doesn’t fall for it, what you’re doing. The _belligerent_ act.

“Listen, buddy. All we got left is the walk home,” he says and you wonder for a minute at his calling you _buddy_. It’s always been pal or man or Terex before. “Think you can do that?” His eyes won’t settle anywhere in particular; flitting from spot to spot within seconds, they make it hard to get a read on him.

Or maybe that’s just your vision swimming. You’re not sure. But when you draw in a breath this time, you’re more careful and it doesn’t hurt quite as much. “I wasn’t shot in my leg, Commander,” you say, your voice a mangled rasp and before he can so much as curl his arm around the elbow on your uninjured side, you’re shoving yourself up.

“Whoa, hey,” he says, bending down, his hand on your lower back. A thin laugh falls from his lips, awkward and maybe worried and you find yourself disgustingly touched by the possibility. “Take it easy.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” you say, but your pride fails as soon as you take a step—more like a stumble—and Poe is forced to anchor you more tightly against him.

“Whatever you say,” he answers, ponderous, his vowels elongated to a cartoonish degree. He clears his throat, pauses; his fingers wind their way into your belt loops. “You took that shot for me.”

You frown, having hoped he wouldn’t notice or have the audacity to mention it if he had, and pretend not to hear. It’s not such a hard leap after all. An ocean is ringing inside your skull, the slosh of blood in your ears loud enough to drown out just about anything if you let it. You might well have been unable to hear him.

“I know that’s what you did,” he says, undeterred, dragging you bodily toward the exit and your passage off this terrible, pointless speck of dirt floating in the middle of nowhere. “Anyone would be able to tell. You—”

You cough again, setting your shoulder ablaze for what you’d love to be the last time. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“No,” he says, combative and fierce. “Not really.”

“You might consider trying it some time.”

“You might consider turning over,” he replies. “Being a good guy’s not so bad.”

“I…” Your lungs seize up, just for a moment, the urge to gasp again almost untenable. Though breathless, you manage to finish your thought. “…prefer to freelance.”

“And I prefer my partners in one piece.” He readjusts his grip on you, jostling you slightly and mumbling an offhand apology. “Yet look where we are.”

 _Look where we are indeed_.

The trip back to the ship—and off the planet— _and_ out of the system—takes far, far longer to your mind after that, every thought you might have had turned to slush in light of Commander Poe Dameron calling you his _partner_. Sadly, there aren’t enough painkillers and bacta patches on the ship to make you forget it and you hurt so much that you can’t sleep it off even though Poe tries to insist that you get some rest. When you don’t, and he starts fussing at you—“That’ll scar if you don’t stop moving,” and “You maybe want to cool it with the bacta?” and, “Blaster wounds heal five times better when you’re sleeping,” which, honestly, is the most bizarre thing you’ve ever heard and both you and he know it—you really wish you could.

 _You’ve gone sentimental_ , you think, letting your head fall back against your seat, its surface only a little forgiving against the back of your head. _Might as well give yourself back to Phasma. It would be less messy than all of this_.

Sentiments, you’ve always known, are the most likely things to get you hurt. Or killed. Or caught. Or worse. Today is merely yet another reminder of that fact. And yet…

And yet.

 _It would be a whole lot less fun, too_.

*

Future you is thinking back to this moment and laughing.

He knows what’s in store for you.

*

It’s not often that a person goes through the trouble of pounding on your door. In fact, most people observe basic courtesy and ring the bell to announce their presence. Not that a whole lot of people are in desperate need of your attention or company. About the only person who _does_ bother you anymore is Poe.

Padding quietly across the floor—hardwood, old, well-maintained, you’ve traded up since you realized Poe dropping by would be a recurring thing—you grab the blaster you keep by the entryway. A precaution you should’ve instituted a long time ago given your circumstances. If it is Poe, he won’t begrudge you your caution. If it’s not, you might just save your own life.

_Bang. Bangbang. Bang._

Frowning, you poke at the door panel, engaging the cam installed in the hallway outside.

A head full of curls greets you. And that’s about all you see because the shoulders are hunched and the head is bent forward. Grinning, vicious, you stab at the controls, door sliding open in front of you.

“Missed me already, Commander?” you say, charmed beyond measure as Poe leans in your doorway.

“Pick any one of the Sith hells, Terex,” he answers, “and go to it.”

“Wonderful.” You peer into the hallway, first toward the left, then the right. “Why don’t you come in? I do so enjoy being properly insulted from inside my home.”

He snorts, but follows your suggestion. You don’t move out of the way for him and he doesn’t go out of his way to avoid colliding with you, his chest brushing your arm as he twists to slip past you. “That’s all I’ve got,” he admits.

Trailing him toward your living area, you tsk. “Not your best work, I’m afraid.”

Flopping onto your new favorite armchair, he shrugs. “Not really trying.”

“I’m growing less flattered by the moment.” You take the chair across from him. It’s been situated such that your knee nearly touches his. You’re not sure why you placed it where you have, but you’re grateful for it. Especially when he sees fit to jostle yours with his. Staring at his leg, maybe hopeful, you ask, “To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

“Not a thing.” The words tumble from his mouth in a quick burst, almost too hard to parse fully. “The general—I’m on shore leave. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

“So you… came here?” Your mouth twists. “What about your friends?”

“Different rotation. Can’t have all the brass out at once.”

You arch your eyebrow.

“Being in charge sucks,” he elaborates, waving his hand in the air to illustrate. Not that the motion illuminates anything for you.

“You could have gone home.”

He pins you with a glare. “Yes, because I want to risk my _family_ for a bit of downtime.”

“I’m sure your father appreciates that.” You know as soon as you say it that it’s the wrong thing to have said, but Poe’s glare merely hardens, so you think perhaps you’ve gotten lucky. Still, you should probably have pretended you don’t know this about him. And yet, you’ve always been this way. Too nosy for your own good. Too invested in information. Determined to get the upper hand by any means necessary. “I doubt the First Order would—”

“Don’t.” And this, you realize, is where you’ve truly crossed the line. His tone is sharper than the knife you know he carries in his boot and his eyes flash with something you consider classifying as hate. “Don’t go there.”

Your jaw clicks shut in any case, self-preservation kicking in.

His fingers tap at the armrests and he looks everywhere but at you, working through—whatever it is he’s working through.

You still don’t know why he’s here. “Can I—”

Raising his hand, Poe shakes his head. “Just—shut up.” His knee jiggles. He bites his lip, much to your infinite displeasure, because it draws your attention to his mouth. A mouth you’d be better off _not_ thinking about. “Shut up, okay?”

Climbing to his feet, he stands over you, forcing you to wrench your neck to look up at him. His eyes flash again. “You could be so much more than this,” he says, throwing his arm out. “Do you even realize that? You could _help_ …”

“Can I speak?”

“ _No_. You don’t even _realize_.” His fingers push through his hair as he looks away. Stalking across the scant feet between you, he bends forward, palms against your chair’s armrest, his hands brushing yours. Your fingers ache with the need to wrap around his wrists to pull him forward—pull him into your lap. “You’ve gotta be the most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”

He shifts, more graceful than you’d have thought possible, and grabs hold of your shoulders, his weight pressing you into the cushion against your back. For a moment, you think he intends to punch you; your body reacts that way, tensing, your hands coming up to grab at his elbows. Thighs tight, you ready to push yourself forward so you can throw him to the floor.

You didn’t wake up this morning thinking you’d get into a physical fight with Poe Dameron, but you often don’t wake up expecting the things that end up happening to you. That’s no reason not to be ready.

And then he surprises you again. The kiss he gives you is more bite than proper expression of desire, angry and bruising, his teeth clacking against yours, catching on your lips. You groan, wrenching him forward, his knee knocking against yours before slamming dangerously close to an important bit of your anatomy. His other leg shoves itself between the outside of your leg and the inside of the armrest. It can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t seem to mind, groaning against your mouth.

“You’re such an asshole,” he says, mouth red, his upper lip scraped raw by your mustache.

“That’s fine with me,” you answer, brutal, pulling him toward you again. His skin is so hot against you, his every touch searing. Sweat prickles against your hairline, trickles down your back. You hadn’t realized just how warm it is until he’s on top of you.

“I shouldn’t—”

You cut him off with a kiss, bite at his mouth in turn, pleased with the hiss that move elicits from him. You’d like to do it again. But instead you turn your head and smirk against his cheek. “Then don’t. I couldn’t care less.” A lie, but one you hope he doesn’t notice. To you, your voice sounds easy, but who knows what he hears in it.

He snarls at you, hand slipping down your stomach, settling against your hip. “Kriff you,” he says, sniffing.

A grin plasters itself across your mouth. “That can be arranged.”

Eyes darkening, he stills, lost momentarily. Calculating the odds of just how wrong this is, maybe. Or deciding whether he can live with himself if you two do this. You force yourself to still just so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of knowing he’s got you just as bothered as he’s got himself.

“You started this,” you say, when he takes too damned long to figure it out.

“Okay,” he says, sighing. He climbs off of your lap and looks both ways for no reason that you can tell. “Let’s do this.” He nods and shrugs out of his jacket, throwing it vaguely toward your favorite chair. “We’re doing this. You got a bedroom around here?”

You push yourself to your feet, delicious nerves pulsing up and down your body. Oh, this is going to be good. “I had no idea you were such a romantic,” you offer, waving in the direction he wants to go. “That way, Commander.”

“Do you want me to be?”

You bark a laugh. “Not on your life.”

You put in the effort to memorize the shape of his ass as he precedes you into your bedroom. You figure this is only going to happen this once and you’re human enough to want to remember it as pristinely as possible.

It’s almost a shame to get a taste of it only to have it taken away again.

You’re human enough, too, to risk it anyway.

*

When you wake in the morning, your body aches pleasantly, relaxed in a way it hasn’t been in quite some time. Without looking, you know Poe’s not there—and you can _guess_ he’s nowhere else in your apartment either. Your pad sits, blinking, on the corner of your bed stand. Waking it with a tap, you immediately note a new message, one Poe must’ve tapped into it directly as it’s not been sent or received anywhere and isn’t encrypted.

_Shore leave got cut short. Meet here: (-111, 045, 002)_

_You can join me anytime, you know?_

You get up, ready yourself for a new day of mayhem. And you are willing to follow Poe into the very heart of First Order space as long as he’s willing to ask for it. He’s apparently still willing to ask.

And those coordinates are definitely in First Order space.

You grin to yourself.

Apparently all is still right with the galaxy.


End file.
